“Legitimately publicity snagging.”
“Right,” Nicky said. “Legit. That word is engraved on the Fontana family escutcheon.”
“Uh-huh. Like the Fontanas have a stone shield somewhere that’s engraved with the family coat of arms. That’s for European aristocracy dating back to the Middle Ages.”
“I know what the word escutcheon means. Jeez. Give me some credit. We have lots of Fontanas beyond the middle-aged, some in the Old Country still. I guess you could say our coat of arms is etched on our epidermis. Me and my brothers all get the family tattoo when we turn twenty-one. Wanna see?”
“I can wait,” Temple said, although wildly curious about the exact location and design of the tattoo on all ten Fontana brothers. She would think they’d have individual druthers.
She imagined that her aunt Kit, latest Fontana family in-law with her recent marriage to Aldo, knew more than she ever would on the subject. And would never tell … without the investment of a whole bottle of wine. Which might be fun.
“Say,” Temple said, “where are you steering me? We’re not going underground to the former Jackson Action ride site?”
“Nope. Not yet. We’re hitting the hotel bar. I have some folks I want to take a meet with.”
“You are beginning to sound more and more like an escapee from The Sopranos.”
“Gotta get in the mood and the mode,” said Nicky, expertly steering her through the milling crowds, which were milling a bit less these days. “We need some extra oomph and publicity bad. With all this talk about an official mob museum, if we can move fast enough, I figure we can steal the thunder and produce heat lightning of our own.”
They had reached the Crystal Court bar, a tropical paradise of flora and fountains and bright sparkling water and crystal chandeliers.
Nicky’s light touch on Temple’s elbow escorted her through a scattering of chic cocktail table setups to a parlor palm–shadowed corner booth so low-lit she’d need a seeing-eye dog to get back there on her own.
That traitorous thought made her look around guiltily for Midnight Louise, but if the ladylike black cat had followed them to this conspiratorial corner, she’d be invisible.
Temple felt totally undercover. Even the usual tabletop glass candleholder was shrouded by a net of black widow veiling.
“Ah. Mr. Nicky Fontana and Miss Temple Barr bestow their presence. Welcome to our reunion conference.”
A dapper little man stood to greet them. From his white-banded black fedora to the red carnation in the lapel of his pinstriped gray suit, he looked the mobster-movie fashion plate.
“Nostradamus,” Nicky exclaimed, “I didn’t expect you here. I haven’t laid anything resembling a bet since I married Van.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Big Shot. A bookie seeking bets I am not. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the fabled desert gang. Old times pass, but can come back around like a favorite boomerang.”
Temple eyed the five old men seated in the semicircular leather booth. She’d heard lots of stories about them, and now, bad luck had certainly “boomeranged” them back into the bosom of the Crystal Phoenix family. Their quirky faces resembled a line of English Toby mugs, except their heights weren’t uniform like the character barware, but as jagged as the Specter Mountains around Vegas.
“I think you know our history consultants, Miss Barr.” Nicky grinned at the fivesome settled onto the booth’s leather upholstery.
“Gracious,” she said, feeling the need of a genteel expletive, “it’s the Glory Hole Gang, live and in person, every last man.”
The grins spread.
“Miss Barr,” Eightball O’Rourke acknowledged with a nod. “We’re wedged in here too tight to stand like little gentleman, thanks to our larger brethren.”
He remained wiry and cue-ball bald. She had seen the most of Eightball, so she racked her brains for the other guys’ handles, and colorful nicknames they were.
Next to O’Rourke sat another half-pint, Wild Blue Pike, the longtime flyboy. He still flashed sky blue eyes and a shock of snow white hair. Spuds Lonnigan, main cook at Three O’Clock Louie’s restaurant on Lake Mead, remained a generously built man with growing gut and thinning hair, as did Pitchblende O’Hara. Cranky Ferguson, on the other hand, was as lean and lanky as an uncooked spaghetti noodle.
Temple recited each name as it came to her, and she nodded at each man, amazed to recall them rightly. What a PR ace she was! Then she realized the Glory Hole Gang members were just too durn colorful to forget. She had to grin back at them. It was like seeing your favorite grandfather after too much time between family reunions, although it had only been a couple of years. The pace of life in Vegas and the massive number of people who came through the toddlin’ town could still amaze someone used to dealing with conventions of twenty thousand attendees and more.
“Set and chat awhile,” Eightball urged.
Nicky and Temple took the end seats. Nicky ordered beers all around, except for a white-wine spritzer for Temple. The youngest Fontana brother was the perfect host. He’d long ago noted that her “working drink” went light on alcohol.
Temple flashed him a smile of thanks and turned back to the assembled two hundred years of Vegas history seated beside her.
“What are you boys doing here?” she asked, falling into Mae West mode, although she was far from the “Dolly Parton of the Thirties.” Somehow vintage Western dialogue went with the Glory Hole Gang like neckerchiefs and dust, both the desert and gold variety.
“I thought you were running Three O’Clock Louie’s restaurant on Lake Mead,” she added, letting them tell her that it was kaput.
“The water done petered out on the restaurant at Temple Bar, Miss Barr,” Spuds said with a sad shake of his balding head. “We was high and dry as Noah’s Ark aground on global warming.”
“Ah …” Temple had read and heard of Lake Mead’s shrinking shoreline, as drought dried up its waters, but out of sight, out of mind. She’d forgotten about Three O’Clock Louie’s at her namesake Temple Bar, a longtime mark on the map, but not as long as it had been a River Thames landmark near the London Inns of Court.
“Omigosh!” She stared at Nicky as it sunk in that natural ills often caused financial ones. “That’s why the Glory Hole Gang lost the restaurant?”
“Jest our customers, ma’am,” Pitchblende pitched in. “Not much to gaze out on as they et but sand and desolation. We was used to living in ghost towns, but tourists kinda want water features and lots of local color and no two-block walks over sand dunes to get to their eats.”
“Next place over is still afloat,” Cranky Ferguson grumbled. “I think they paid protection to the Guy Upstairs to keep their waterline from wastin’ away.”
“Vagaries of nature,” Nostradamus put in, “are as cruel as odds at the track, but a little birdie—”
“A scavenger crow, no doubt,” Eightball put in.
“—tells me that the Glory Hole Gang is coming back.”
“Right on, Nostradamus!” Nicky’s clap on Cranky Ferguson’s shoulder raised a puff of sand dust. “Three O’Clock Louie’s is coming back, better than ever. What do you guys say to a new location?”
Nostradamus had been standing by, but now he tipped his hat. “I see there’s hefty business on the table, so I must amble on while I am able.”
The Glory Hole Gang nodded the bookie good-bye, then hunkered down for serious talk.
“Thing is,” Nicky said, “I recalled the operation and want to make Three O’Clock’s into a franchise, starting with a flagship restaurant at Gangsters and then going national. After all, the ex–Glory Hole Gang has a colorful early Vegas history, and we can theme the menu to those exciting days of yesteryear.”
“That’s the concept,” Temple asked, “a restaurant?”